A Ruddy Mess
by VictorianChik
Summary: While trying to clean the flat, John finds drugs that Sherlock has hidden. He notifies Lestrade and Mycroft who come over immediately to confront the problem. Warning: Slight language and caning.


I got home on Tuesday at two and the flat was a mess. Papers had flown everywhere, books stacked up until they looked like the skyline of London, and the smell of chemicals hung heavy in the air.

I swallowed my frustration. Sherlock had junked up the place again, and I was tired of it. I had a girl coming over in just over an hour, a real-life, honest-to-goodness girl who lived and breathed and had long legs under stockings and very perky breasts. I knew Sherlock, being gay, wouldn't appreciate those qualities, but I most certainly did. Sarah was so pretty and so kind, a first-class girl if I had ever met one.

And she had a marvelous laugh and a wicked sense of humor. She would make small, little snarky remarks, and then the edges of her mouth would tuck up as she tried to hide her amusement. I had never liked people that laughed too much at their own jokes, but a bit of a smile - I loved that about her. We had only gone out three times, but I was mad over her. And she had met Sherlock and hadn't run away in horror, so that was a good sign as well.

Sherlock had been on the phone this morning while I tried to watch a bit of telly, but he started shouting so loudly I turned it off and went for a walk. On the way, my girl had called me on my mobile, and what had started as a simple chat had turned into a two hour discussion over what I wanted for the future. I had walked as far as six tube stops as I told her about craving the excitement of the war and how I kept finding action with Sherlock though it was often dangerous and she said I was a basketful, but she liked that.

I got a cuppa and sat outside and daydreamed about my life with her and the children we would have. They would call me Da and her Mum and Sherlock "Uncle Sher" if he outlived all the enemies he had made. Sarah and I might get a house outside of London, close enough to ride the train in if we needed anything, and we'd live happily ever after while helping Sherlock solve the occasional mystery.

But then I returned to the flat. The mess inside ruined all my high spirits, and I had a momentary desire to strike something. I could have kicked the piles of rubbish, but instead I started cleaning up. I was knee-deep into stacks of books, papers, and bags of what I hoped was cooked meat and not body parts when I heard steps on the stairs.

Sherlock came up with his usual nonchalance. "A lovely afternoon. Someone was murdered in Hyde Park, left right beneath the Peter Pan. Arms stretched out like he was flying. I took some pictures, and I know how he was killed and why, but I'm waiting for Lestrade to phone."

He held out his mobile. "After everything I've done, I think our dear Scotland Yard man needs to show the most brilliant mind in England a bit more respect."

"The flat is a mess," I interrupted. "Sarah's dropping by in an hour, and there's nowhere to stand, let alone sit."

"Take her away," Sherlock shrugged and leaned against the kitchen table, careful not to bump anything off. "Go out so I can think in quiet."

"You already solved the crime," I tried to keep calm. "Why do you need to think now?"

"I never stop thinking. I can't think with a woman around."

"Yes, you can. I've seen you do it."

"Well, Sarah's always smiling at me," Sherlock made a face. "That smug look on her face when she found the words translated on the symbol sheet – she was gloating at me."

"Well, she saw an opportunity that not many would have and she took it," I replied. "She's popping by, and I want this place tidied up."

"It's perfectly clean," Sherlock absently rubbed his arm. "And we haven't any food so you'll have to go out if you get peckish."

"I went to the store yesterday!"

"I got hungry last night."

"Please," I raised my voice half a notch, "help me pick up. I help you solve cases – you could at least help me here."

"In a bit," Sherlock pushed himself off the table and headed towards the stairs. I heard his door shut.

I considered the various means at my disposal to drive him mad. I could replace his nicotine patches with normal band-aids, I could download a virus on his computer, or I could slowly poison him.

Instead, I stacked books on the shelves and started toting the suspicious bags to the kitchen. I had made some progress – I could see patches of the floor now – and I grabbed a wooden box off the floor. The top wouldn't open so I moved to put it on the shelf.

My shoe caught the edge of the rug and I tripped. The box tumbled out of my hands.

It hit the floor and broke open.

White powder spilled out.

For a second, I stood frozen, looking at the small new mess. White flakes against the bare wood, a random pattern flung out in accident.

My mind raced through the possibilities of drugs: heroin, PCP, cocaine, or some new drug I hadn't heard of yet.

I suspected my flatmate of keeping drugs when Lestrade conducted a drugs raid, but I hadn't asked Sherlock. And now here were drugs.

What should I do? I turned around in agitation. What should I do?

I considered tasting the drugs. In med school, I tasted the tiniest bits of narcotics just so we could recognize what different drugs were in case we had to treat an overdose. But even if I could identify the drug lying on the floor, I wasn't sure what good it would do.

My hand had reached into my pocket and pulled out my mobile. Before I knew what I was doing, I had texted _Sherlock has drugs in the flat. I found a lot. Advice?_

I scrolled down the list of contacts. I had Lestrade in there, but right above his name was Mycroft. The Inspector and the Older Brother.

Before I could think, I texted the message to them both.

The mobile blinked, and the SENT message came on. I stared at the screen, almost as if expecting a reply to come two seconds after the message was sent. Nothing came.

I didn't know what do. Should I touch the white powder? Should I clean it up? Leave it as evidence? Evidence for what? Would they lock Sherlock up?

I had just turned my one friend in the world over to the police . . . and tattled on him to his brother who worked for the government.

I scanned my phone for some kind of UNSEND button. Modern technology could do so many things, but apparently it couldn't counteract the impulses of men who acted before they thought.

A message beeped on the phone, and I was so startled I nearly dropped it. The message was from Lestrade: _Don't move. I'll be over there in fifteen._

It was almost a relief. Lestrade would be able to deal with this development.

I didn't know what to do while I waited. I stood over the white powder like a guard dog and listened for any sign that Sherlock would come down and discover what I had – er – discovered. I considered putting something over the powder spill, but I decided against it.

In fourteen minutes flat, Lestrade was there, clamoring up the steps.

"It's here," I pointed to the floor. "Right here."

"Calm down, calm down," Lestrade waved down my near-hysteria. "You were right to call me. I knew this day would come."

"Indeed, you did not," Another voice rang out.

I looked down the stairs to see Mycroft walking up, hat and cane in hand, posture straight and regal as if he owned the flat and the entire block.

"You merely hoped it," Mycroft corrected. "You weighed the likelihood of my brother engaging in such filth," Mycroft motioned to the floor and the spill, "but you did not know it for certain."

"Semantics," Lestrade brushed him aside. "The proof is there. What is it?"

Mycroft came over and looked at it in that highbrow way of his. "Heroin."

"You can tell from just looking?" I was impressed.

"No, but knowing Sherlock, it's heroin. Ah, my brother – indulging yet again. Whenever the nicotine doesn't work, he resorts to these foolish notions."

"You've used before," Lestrade accused.

This was news to me.

"Perhaps," Mycroft was still unperturbed. "But I keep my habits under control and I would never be foolish enough to leave signs of my habit strewn about in this clumsy way."

"Signs of a habit?" Lestrade scoffed. "That's enough heroin to bring in a thousand quid on the right street."

"Dear me, Sherlock does like to throw his money around," Mycroft sighed. He looked at me, "You were right to call me."

"He called you? He called me!"

"I called both of you," I said nervously. "I didn't know what to do. I've never seen him use, but he's barely functional as it is at times. I swear he has a death wish, and I got a girl coming over later and –"

"Oh, a girl?" Mycroft said in that detestable patronizing way. "Well, let's be quick about it. I wouldn't want to interrupt your tryst with some unsuspecting maiden. Sherlock!"

Mycroft had raised his voice to a shout, and I instinctively stepped towards the stairs to make an escape.

"You will hold there," Mycroft pointed his cane at me. "We may have need of you. Sherlock, right now!"

Steps sounded, and Sherlock came down the stairs. "What is that racket? I've a splitting headache – what is he doing here?"

"What are you doing with that?" Mycroft pointed to the powder.

I wasn't sure how Sherlock would react, but even I was surprised when he yelled,

"You spilled it! All over the floor. What good is it on the floor? Which one of you bastards -"

"He did it," Lestrade pointed at me.

"It was an accident," I rushed to say.

"But he called us, and that was not an accident," Mycroft put his cane down on a stack of books and began unbuttoning his cuffs. "You remember what I promised would happen next time I caught you with that stuff."

"No," Sherlock stiffened, "no, you promised Mummy you would never lift a finger again to me."

"I added 'unless you did drugs again'. Mum thought that was a brilliant idea."

"She did not!"

"Sorry, dear boy," Mycroft rolled up his sleeves. "There are three of us and only one of you. Who do you think will win?"

Sherlock lunged towards the door, and Lestrade and Mycroft were on him so fast that I nearly feel over.

Sherlock tried his usual martial arts moves, and had it only been Lestrade, I'm sure he would have beaten the inspector in a minute. But Mycroft had obviously trained the same way, and he countered Sherlock's blows while Lestrade grabbed at him.

The row went into the kitchen, knocking over the table, and when they struggled to their feet, Sherlock's hands were locked behind in handcuffs and both panting men herded him back into the lounge.

"Let me go!" Sherlock snarled, almost animalistic. "I'll kill both of you, you –" and what followed was some of the dirtiest language I have ever heard, even with my stint in the army.

"Lean him over the armchair," Mycroft insisted. "John, you help hold him still."

"Sorry," I said awkwardly as I took Sherlock's right shoulder (Lestrade had the left) and bent him over. "I never thought –"

"Don't apologize to him," Mycroft picked up his cane. "It isn't sympathy that he needs. You allow yourself to feel something for him, and he'll run all over you."

"Let me up, you sodding prick," Sherlock snarled, "and I will show you what I'll do."

"Good reason not to let him up," Lestrade said aside to me.

I felt dreadful, but I kept my hands firm on Sherlock's shoulder. "Let's be quick about it, please."

"Oh, that's right," Mycroft nodded, "We can't dally here, dear brother. John has a girl coming over. That's the most important bit."

I huffed, disliking his patronizing tone. I was a single bloke in the prime of my life – why shouldn't I have a girl coming over? I tried to think of a witty retort (Mycroft was almost annoying as his brother), but I couldn't think of anything fitting and Sherlock started squirming to get free so Lestrade and I redoubled our efforts to control him.

"I'm not going to let you beat me just because John has a girl coming over!" Sherlock shouted.

"You are getting punished because you have drugs in the house, strong drugs," Mycroft's usually calm voice grew deeper, almost angry. "You know how I feel about those. You can't be so careless with your property, not when you're working this closely with the police. They're a noisy lot, sniffing around all over the place, aren't you, Lestrade?"

"For goodness sake," Lestrade struggled to keep Sherlock down, "stop baiting him and get on with it."

Mycroft looked at me, and I looked right back at him, daring him to say something about my girl coming by. If he did, I was more than willing to step back and let Sherlock have a go at his brother. But Mycroft simply reached for his cane.

I blinked. "Is-is that n-necessary? Can't you just slipper him or use a-a-a- belt?"

"We're British," Mycroft pointed the tip of the cane at me. "We cane here."

The cane wasn't as thick as I thought; it was thin and bendy, not thicker than my smallest finger. But I hesitated. My flatmate was so sensitive a fellow, and while I was perfectly fine with Mycroft berating him for having drugs, a caning seemed too much.

Mycroft looked at me again. His gaze said clearly _You called me here. This is how I handle my brother. Do you have a better idea? If so, give it a go._

I reluctantly nodded and spoke to the man wriggling under my hand. "Sherlock, stay still. Mycroft is going to cane you and if you move too much, you could get hurt."

Sherlock actually turned his head and tried to bite at me like an animal. His eyes were alight with unholy fire, and I was scared of him for a second. Sociopath, indeed.

Mycroft stepped back and flicked the cane down on Sherlock's bottom.

For a moment the room went silent. Lestrade and I looked at each other, neither of us able to articulate anything.

"Ow!" Sherlock yelled. "Ow, ow, get off of me, you mother-"

The cane swished down again.

"No, you won't do this to me," Sherlock bellowed. "No, I'm a grown-up now. No, you can't."

Mycroft's face betrayed nothing as he brought the cane down soundly. _Thwack!_

"I'm telling," Sherlock's voice had raised to a higher pitch, almost a boyish whine. "I'll tell the whole world that you did this to –" _Thwack_! "Stop it! Stooooop!"

The caning continued.

I was sweating rivers, but I kept my grip even though my wrists ached.

"I'll frame you for murder," Sherlock was screeching now. "The evidence will be so damning, no jury will ever – Ow!"

"Hello?" a female voice sounded from the stairs.

We all looked, and Sara stood frozen, three steps from the top, purse and coat in hand.

"Ah, you must be the girl," Lestrade said.

"Brilliant deduction," Sherlock yelled at him, twisting underneath our hands.

"Quiet down," Mycroft gave him a half-hearted thwack of the cane. "There is a lady present. Do not be alarmed, my dear. Sherlock is getting caned for using drugs."

"For having them," Lestrade corrected.

Mycroft frowned. "Why would he have them if he didn't plan to use them?"

"Research?" Sara asked in a nervous voice.

"Innocent child," Mycroft was unbearably patronizing, "you believe the best of everyone. I can see why you fancy John. If you will give us half a moment, John will greet you properly. This caning is only half-done."

Sherlock tried to rear up, but Mycroft brought the cane down so hard that Sherlock flopped over the armchair.

Sara had covered her ears, looking so innocent and worried that I wanted to let go of my flatmate and go to her.

"Is this standard procedure?" she asked. "Is this how the police handle their private detectives?"

"It is when they use drugs and their older brother finds out," Lestrade quipped.

"So you tore the place apart looking for drugs?" Sara's eyes roved over the messy room.

"No, I was trying to tidy up and I found the drugs and spilled them," I said.

"And you're an inconsiderate flatmate," Mycroft scolded his brother, striking him again with the cane. "Are you trying to alienate yourself from everyone? I think you want us to lock you in a padded room somewhere so you can be all alone and as nasty as you please."

"Oh, well, I'm sure that won't be necessary," Sara looked torn. "I . . . I don't condone corporal punishment."

We said nothing.

She pointed her finger at me. "I don't condone it."

Then she came up the last steps and sat in an empty chair, across from the one we had Sherlock over. "But I also make it a point to never argue with the police."

Before I had a chance to respond, Mycroft started caning with vigor, sharp and fast as if he wanted to get through. Sherlock yelled out, but his brother kept going.

The last three were so hard that Sherlock let his head hang and sobbed. Mycroft stepped back, panting slightly from the exertion.

Sherlock's shoulders were shaking, and his whole body was racked with sobs. Lestrade unlocked the cuffs, but Sherlock just brought his arms up and tucked them under his face as he continued to cry.

"Well?" Sara asked.

We all gave her awkward looks.

"You aren't going to leave him like that. You're his brother," to Mycroft, "comfort him."

Mycroft's lips twitched at being told what to do. However, he put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Sherly, don't fuss so. It's all over."

"Go to hell," came the muffled reply.

"Come along and be reasonable. You know how Mummy felt about your drug use. Are you going to buy drugs again?"

"No," Sherlock still sounded slightly defiant. "But you didn't have to hurt me like that. I would have given Lestrade the drugs."

None of us believed that for a second, but Mycroft didn't contradict him.

"I'm beaten bloody," Sherlock went on. "I won't be able to walk and I'll have to stay indoors, and the whole city will plunge into crime. Everyone's blood will be on your hands."

"Can you stand up?" I asked. "Should we carry you to bed?"

Sherlock straightened, indignation in his gaze. "No one shall ever touch me again. Get out – all of you. I never want to see you here again in my whole life."

"What if we got you some ice to sit on?" Sara spoke up. "And some aspirin?"

"Your girlfriend's the only decent one of the lot of you," Sherlock said to me.

"I'll get it," Sara got up and went into the kitchen.

"I'll never be able to walk without agony," Sherlock kept complaining. "My whole arse is on fire, burning like –"

A panicked scream came from the kitchen.

Sherlock bolted up and dashed into the kitchen, fighting stance ready.

Sara was holding onto the counter edge with shaky hands. She pointed to the refrigerator. "There – there – there's a head in there!"

Sherlock dropped his attack pose. "Yes, I'm seeing how fast eyes dry out in the cold once someone dies. You didn't touch it, did you?"

"There's a human head in your freezer!" she shrieked. "I am not used to opening a freezer door and seeing a human head! Are you mad? Pyscho!"

I went to her side to rub her shoulders, but Sherlock twisted his lips into a sneer.

"Oh, fawn all over her. I take a caning, but she can't bear a little experiment in the kitchen? And it's 'functioning sociopath'!"

Sara pointed to the fridge again. "Human head!"

"Don't upset the lady," Mycroft said. "If she becomes hysterical, she won't snog the young gentleman."

"We do more than snog," I protested.

"John!" Sara scolded.

"I meant we talk and eat together and like the same books."

"How disgustingly chaste," Mycroft scoffed. "Sherly, go lie down on the sofa and I'll bring you some ice."

"Don't coddle me," Sherlock snapped as he headed back to the lounge. "I hate being coddled."

"Mum coddled you all the time," Mycroft said as he got an ice pack out of the freezer. Sara lifted her hand to her face to hide the sight of the corpse head on the top shelf.

"She did not," Sherlock sulked as he lay on the sofa, careful to keep pressure off his poor bottom. "She loved me. Everyone else hates me."

He complained while we got him the ice and the pain medicine, and then he said he wanted a nicotine patch, but Mycroft said no.

"Evil and cruel!" Sherlock wailed, putting his arm to his forehead in tragic fashion. "I never get anything I want. Go, and leave me alone in my misery."

"We could order some food?" Sara suggested.

Sherlock huffed and sulked, but finally admitted, "Fine. But it better be good."

"While the food is coming, we could straighten the flat," Sara went on. "And fix you a cup of tea. We'd all do well with a cup of tea."

In the end, Mycroft went to fix the tea, Sara and I put away the books and stuff in the lounge, and Lestrade cleaned up the spilled drugs with the Hoover. The whole time, Sherlock lay on the sofa with his ice pack and warned us to take care of his things and not damage his precious books and please find his mobile and why wasn't Sara alphabetizing the book she put on the shelves?

Eventually the food came, and we all sat around the lounge, eating and talking while the nightly news played on the telly in the background. Sherlock tried to be disgruntled, but he got in a heated discussion with Lestrade about the clues of a stolen painting. Mycroft joined the talk, leaving Sara to snuggle next to me and make funny comments about the other three.

Mycroft left first, warning his brother to be good or he would be back. Lestrade slipped out soon after that, but Sara stayed, sitting beside me while we nibbled on sweet biscuits and drank more tea.

"Look," Sara tugged on my arm, "Sherlock's asleep."

Indeed, he was. One hand hung off the edge of the sofa, and the ice pack had fallen to the floor, but he was sound asleep.

"My gosh, he's human," Sara whispered. "I didn't think he slept at all."

"We could go out to see a show," I asked, unwilling to say goodnight just yet.

"Let's go to your room," she gave me a knowing look. "And then we can prove just how unchaste we are."

She didn't have to tell me twice. We were out of the room in a second, leaving Sherlock to sleep quietly alone.


End file.
